Way Things Were
by songstobesung
Summary: "It's the thing that keep them together, when their apart. It's the sun that radiates the warmth around them. It's the little whispered moments that happened so long ago, but seem like a minute away." It's the way things were. Oneshot.


**Warning: **Two character deaths. This can be read alone, but for more information read 'Just Right'.

* * *

She cried when it happened. It was her worst nightmare. It was the cold boy in her arms. It was the last trace of a heartbeat, the warmth that didn't dare touch the heart. It was a death, a curse brought to her eldest child.

It was a pain in her chest, the kisses she gave. It was the tears that soaked his skin, which warmed the dryness. It was him, empty eyes, letting them look up to heaven. It was the thing that kept them from helping one another. It was the thing that threatened to take her soul from her husband. It was the virus that threatened to destroy them all.

It was also the smile on his face, the Mohawk on his head. It was his dark skin, his full red lips, pouting so peacefully. It was the memories that stung, that laid in the special place in her heart, the place where only she could see.

It was the pain that suffered through the two years, the longing in her chest, the aching sorrow she felt when she picked up her cell phone, and her voice echoed in a lonesome room, telling her husband, that yes, Tanner had died.

It was the clicking of the phone, the way the phone dropped on the floor. It was her hand, tracing his nose, closing his eyes, kissing them. It was the shallow, shaking breaths that came from her. It was her forgetting to take her medicine. It was her violently hissing at the God above. It was her being wrapped up in someone's arms. It was her crying, sobbing, finally breaking down.

It was the hands running through her hair, the kisses on her cheek, the tongue in her mouth. It was the touching, the loving, but never the sexing. It was the way he said her name, every Saturday morning. It was the way she laughed, a sound that floated into the breeze.

It was the way they planned the funeral, with tears and a small grave. It was the way her daughter laid the single rose on his grave. It was the way she lingered, bringing out his ragged green baby blanket. It was her hands touching the grave, tracing his name over and over. It was the way she talked to him, breathing in the scent of his skin, on the green blanket.

It was him coming back to carry her home. It was him, making sure she woke up in the morning. It was him, bringing her the medication. It was their daughter growing up before them, loving and caring. It was the Christmas days spent with one unfilled stocking hanging up. It was Thanksgiving dinners with an extra, empty plate. It was the baseball bat swung only for a season. It was all those things.

It was watching her fall slowly. It was watching her eyes go blank. It was their daughter calling school, telling them she was sick. It was their daughter making her mother soup. It was the way she held her mother's hand, the sweat growing thick on the long fingers. It was the way she held back her hair when her mother threw up. It was the way their ten year old daughter called her father at work, to tell him what had happened.

It was the way he held her in his arms, putting her in the backseat. It was the way his daughter, so fucking strong, called the hospital. It was the way that for two months, she was still unmarried, and the last month of her life, she was proud to have a ring on her finger.

It was the way he kissed her goodbye, the way he closed her eyes. It was the way he told her a million things, not daring to touch the ring that rested on her finger. It was the way he sang to her, sang to her one last time. It was a dark, mysterious thing.

It was the gravestone, next to his son's. It was the white dress she never wore, the smile she always had on her face. It was the thing that took her soul, which left him with the consoles of grief. It was the rain that fell onto his skin the night she died. It took them both.

It was the way he held his daughter, before she was the one who was in high school. It was the thing that kept him in the past, looking at pictures that showed happier times. It was the dreams that showed him what could have happened. It was the thing that kept them from living, five years after her death, and ten years after his. It's the thing that keeps his daughter from becoming like him.

It's the wedding dress his daughter wears. It's the ring on her finger, a class ring. It's the smile, the haunting smile, she gives him when he knows it's she who will be living now.

It's the thing that keep them together, when their apart. It's the sun that radiates the warmth around them. It's the fights in high school, the kisses in middle school, the hugs in elementary. It's the sexing in the janitor's closet in high school, the holding hands in middle school, the sharing crayons in elementary. It's her swishing red skirt, his Mohawk. It's the looks they'd give each other, before laughing uncontrollably.

It's the little whispered moments that happened so long ago, but seem like a minute away. It's the soft smiles that led to kisses, which led to the fateful events of his life. It's the thing that seems like it could never happen, but did. It's the way things worked, but never in his favor.

It's the smirk she gave him freshman years. It's the thong still in his underwear drawer. It's the things that never changed, but changed all the same. It's the confusing tears, the frustrated sighs. It's the equation in math he could never solve, but she'd be right there to help him. It was simple.

It was the age when he turned seventy, and walked to her grave in the middle of the winter, on Christmas Eve. It's the way he knew she'd still be beautiful today. It's the way he brought an apple green, dirty baby blanket, and laid the ragged sheet next to him. It was the smile he had after he kissed her grave, and traced the letters.

_Santana Marie Lopez_

It's the way he wrote his in the snow.

_Noah Elijah Puckerman_

It's the way that when he passed on, he knew that she'd be there to greet him.

It was the way things were.

She cried when it happened. It was her worst nightmare. It was the cold boy in her arms. It was the last trace of a heartbeat, the warmth that didn't dare touch the heart. It was a death, a curse brought to her eldest child.

It was a pain in her chest, the kisses she gave. It was the tears that soaked his skin, which warmed the dryness. It was him, empty eyes, letting them look up to heaven. It was the thing that kept them from helping one another. It was the thing that threatened to take her soul from her husband. It was the virus that threatened to destroy them all.

It was also the smile on his face, the Mohawk on his head. It was his dark skin, his full red lips, pouting so peacefully. It was the memories that stung, that laid in the special place in her heart, the place where only she could see.

It was the pain that suffered through the two years, the longing in her chest, the aching sorrow she felt when she picked up her cell phone, and her voice echoed in a lonesome room, telling her husband, that yes, Tanner had died.

It was the clicking of the phone, the way the phone dropped on the floor. It was her hand, tracing his nose, closing his eyes, kissing them. It was the shallow, shaking breaths that came from her. It was her forgetting to take her medicine. It was her violently hissing at the God above. It was her being wrapped up in someone's arms. It was her crying, sobbing, finally breaking down.

It was the hands running through her hair, the kisses on her cheek, the tongue in her mouth. It was the touching, the loving, but never the sexing. It was the way he said her name, every Saturday morning. It was the way she laughed, a sound that floated into the breeze.

It was the way they planned the funeral, with tears and a small grave. It was the way her daughter laid the single rose on his grave. It was the way she lingered, bringing out his ragged green baby blanket. It was her hands touching the grave, tracing his name over and over. It was the way she talked to him, breathing in the scent of his skin, on the green blanket.

It was him coming back to carry her home. It was him, making sure she woke up in the morning. It was him, bringing her the medication. It was their daughter growing up before them, loving and caring. It was the Christmas days spent with one unfilled stocking hanging up. It was Thanksgiving dinners with an extra, empty plate. It was the baseball bat swung only for a season. It was all those things.

It was watching her fall slowly. It was watching her eyes go blank. It was their daughter calling school, telling them she was sick. It was their daughter making her mother soup. It was the way she held her mother's hand, the sweat growing thick on the long fingers. It was the way she held back her hair when her mother threw up. It was the way their ten year old daughter called her father at work, to tell him what had happened.

It was the way he held her in his arms, putting her in the backseat. It was the way his daughter, so fucking strong, called the hospital. It was the way that for two months, she was still unmarried, and the last month of her life, she was proud to have a ring on her finger.

It was the way he kissed her goodbye, the way he closed her eyes. It was the way he told her a million things, not daring to touch the ring that rested on her finger. It was the way he sang to her, sang to her one last time. It was a dark, mysterious thing.

It was the gravestone, next to his son's. It was the white dress she never wore, the smile she always had on her face. It was the thing that took her soul, which left him with the consoles of grief. It was the rain that fell onto his skin the night she died. It took them both.

It was the way he held his daughter, before she was the one who was in high school. It was the thing that kept him in the past, looking at pictures that showed happier times. It was the dreams that showed him what could have happened. It was the thing that kept them from living, five years after her death, and ten years after his. It's the thing that keeps his daughter from becoming like him.

It's the wedding dress his daughter wears. It's the ring on her finger, a class ring. It's the smile, the haunting smile, she gives him when he knows it's she who will be living now.

It's the thing that keep them together, when their apart. It's the sun that radiates the warmth around them. It's the fights in high school, the kisses in middle school, the hugs in elementary. It's the sexing in the janitor's closet in high school, the holding hands in middle school, the sharing crayons in elementary. It's her swishing red skirt, his Mohawk. It's the looks they'd give each other, before laughing uncontrollably.

It's the little whispered moments that happened so long ago, but seem like a minute away. It's the soft smiles that led to kisses, which led to the fateful events of his life. It's the thing that seems like it could never happen, but did. It's the way things worked, but never in his favor.

It's the smirk she gave him freshman years. It's the thong still in his underwear drawer. It's the things that never changed, but changed all the same. It's the confusing tears, the frustrated sighs. It's the equation in math he could never solve, but she'd be right there to help him. It was simple.

It was the age when he turned seventy, and walked to her grave in the middle of the winter, on Christmas Eve. It's the way he knew she'd still be beautiful today. It's the way he brought an apple green, dirty baby blanket, and laid the ragged sheet next to him. It was the smile he had after he kissed her grave, and traced the letters.

_Santana Marie Lopez_

It's the way he wrote his in the snow.

_Noah Elijah Puckerman_

It's the way that when he passed on, he knew that she'd be there to greet him.

It was the way things were.

* * *

** I can't get Pucktana out of my head, and everything is related to Just Right, as of this point in time. I was thinking about how San would react to her son dieing from HIV/AIDS, and this spilled out. Anyways, review are always welcome! **

**-Madi**


End file.
